Alcoholic Daze - Chapter 2

The continuation of the alcoholic saga which was first written in 2008 with some minor amendments.....

He has not always been an alcoholic. We were married in 1976 and knew one another for 5 years before we married, so we were together in total for 39 years when he died in 2010 . We met as students studying German at university and we married in the very hot and humid summer of 1976. I should have known the omens were not boding well when we picked our honeymoon in Cornwall - the only two torrential rainy weeks of that summer. Some people joke that for a honeymoon it shouldn't matter what the weather is doing. Then, it didn't!! In retrospect, that was a sign I should have heeded! Until 4 years ago, the majority of our 39 years together had been fine. It had had its ups and downs, like I suspect most marriages, but we never doubted we would stay together forever. We had so much in common, both before we met and afterwards. Too much to lose if we drifted apart. It would be like losing a leg. Little did I know that the concept of legless would take on a different connotation!

As soon as we married, we spent the first three years in Cologne, Germany, where Greg was employed by a major German broadcasting company. It was the done thing, certainly in those days in German households to have a crate of beer in the house, to drink with a meal, or if guests called unexpectedly by in the evening. If we turned up at German friends' houses, beer was offered to us too. Or we would go out in a group to a Bierkeller or jazz keller. For a change we bought Rhein or Mosel wine as it was ridiculously cheap compared with what you have to pay for wine in the UK. We did not over-indulge, but it was there all around us in abundance, if we wanted it. We hardly touched it. We were young, living and working hard abroad, making a wide circle of German and English expat friends.

When we returned to London in 1979, we were busy settling down into our new jobs and starting out belatedly on the housing ladder. I had returned to my former employer, but in a different office. Greg was working for an entirely different employer, but still in broadcasting. We were in our very late twenties. It took quite a few years to nestle into our professions and acclimatise to being back in Britain. It took many (too many) more years, after giving up all hope, before we were blessed with a beautiful healthy baby daughter at long long last (in my fortieth year). We were gloriously happy.

Greg's job was getting more and more stressful and he had to cope as a matter of routine with deadlines at hourly intervals. His newsroom had high standards to keep and every word had to be checked and double-checked, as a mistake in the reporting could literally mean life or death to their audience abroad. For this reason, he was very pedantic at home about the correct usage of words and would shout at the TV when the national news was on, if they got something wrong - in his eyes. He found it very difficult to switch off from work when he was at home and in any case, the very nature of his job meant keeping abreast of international news all the time. His office was run in three shifts (mornings/afternoons, afternoons/evenings or nights) and he had to work a week of night shifts once a month on a rota, as well as bank holidays. He worked four shifts and then had four days off. It is a well-known fact that shift-work can play havoc on your health, particularly night shifts, and he seemed desperately to need his days off, particularly after night shifts, to get back on an even keel again. There was a staff bar in the building and it was not unusual for him and his colleagues to gravitate there during the lunch-hour. Or they would slip across the road to one of the many bars in the area. After a night shift, he would often come home at breakfast time and have a glass of wine or a shot of whisky. It was his way of relaxing and winding down ready for bed. On the last day of his night shift patterns, he would often stay up during the day instead of going to bed in order to acclimatise to the day shifts again and do some DIY which he found relaxing and therapeutic. We had just moved to a house which needed a lot doing to it. Rather than call in professionals, he liked to do the work himself. Often he would have the door of our integral garage open and would potter in there with his designs and work tools with a glass of wine or whisky in his hand. Often he would emerge from the garage and do some carpentry on the forecourt in front of the house.

One day, I was driving home in the early evening with my daughter from a Brownies (Girl Scouts) meeting, when a neighbour who lived opposite us approached my car as I was parking it. I barely knew her, except to nod good morning from a distance or comment on the weather. She was clutching a small leaflet which she shoved hastily into my hand, so as not to alert my daughter's attention to it. "This", she said, "is for you. You might need it because of your husband." She scurried off across the road, before I could say anything to her. When I got inside, I took off my coat and looked at the leaflet. On the front title page were the words "Alcoholics Anonymous. Advice for families living with an alcoholic".

April Fool

I couldn't let April Fool's Day (admittedly yesterday) go by without posting this clip from a television programme back in 1957. It was aired on a programme called Panorama - which still exists today - and covers all manner of topics but always serious and political.  This particular item was broadcast on 1 April 1957. The date should have given a clue to its authenticity, but so many people believed it was true. I suppose in those days, pasta was a relatively new concept to us Britons and the BBC was a highly revered institution that couldn't possibly be telling untruths.

Happy Easter

This week, I am starting gruelling dental treatment to fill a gap where a tooth was removed during the Covid pandemic. I find it hard to chew on that side and sought out a local specialist dentist who does implants. He has glowing reviews on his website.  He took a CT scan of my mouth and did measurements and declared that he didn't feel confident doing an implant, as there is not enough bone density to insert an implant that would otherwise come into contact with a nerve within millimetres of it. Even if he injected artificial bone to augment the bone density, he still feels the implant would fail and cause me 18-months of painful treatment that would fail. He is THE MAN to do implants and even lectures on the subject at University College London, so, if he says it is not possible, then I believe him. He could have just taken my money and done a bad job, but was at least honest. He suggested a bridge would solve the problem more than adequately, so I am starting that treatment on Tuesday. The implant would have cost £4,900. The bridge is costing £4,800. My usual dentist charges £2,400 for a bridge so I asked why the difference. His reply is that he is more skilled in doing bridges and has studied long and hard to get the best techniques. He said, "it's like the difference between having your leg amputated by a General Practitioner or an Orthopaedic Surgeon. Who would do the better job?" I get what he means and have been persuaded to go for the expensive option. I hope it lasts and will see me out, anyway. I don't go on any expensive holidays (or in some years ANY holidays) so I might as well make good use of my savings. The first appointment on Tuesday is scheduled for two and a half hours. The second appointment three weeks later for an hour. So by May I should be in possession of gnashers to die for.

For many decades, I have had an Easter tree - a custom I picked up when I lived in Germany, but which has caught on here more recently too. Each year I add to the decorations and this year bought six clip-on birds to add to the bunny rabbits, chicks and eggs. I decorated it yesterday in advance of next weekend. If you look closely you can count seven birds, six of them clip-ons.  Happy Easter everybody!

Beside the seaside

This week saw me taking myself off to Eastbourne for a few days. I booked into my favourite hotel on the seafront. I just fancied a change of scene from rainy London and to be fair, I swapped it for the very sunny seaside town on the South coast. I know Eastbourne like the back of my hand, as my parents moved there, once they retired, and I used to visit regularly. When my father died, I used to travel down there at least once a month to spend a week with my mother, doing a big shop for her, taking her to appointments, doing her garden or whatever else needed doing. So it's like a second home to me. 

On the drive down this week,  I called in to see Nellie.  Now 97,  she and her husband were neighbours of my parents about 35 years ago and stayed firm friends even when each couple moved on to different locations. Sadly her husband died 2 years ago and Nellie has somewhat declined since. She has no children or other relatives and her current neighbour has been caring for her, but since December, Nellie has become very frail after several falls and has been moved, most reluctantly she has made it clear, to a care home in Sussex. I thought it only right to call in on her, on my way down, as it may well be the last time I see her. I hardly recognised her as she looked so frail and gaunt compared with two years ago. Clearly her memory was going too and she thought I was someone else. I think being in a care home can do that to you.

Once I arrived in Eastbourne, it was lovely to visit familiar haunts - pop in and out of my favourite shops, do long promenade walks to Beachy Head and lay flowers at the crematorium where my parents ashes are scattered.

The carpet gardens by the pier once looked like this for decades,

but Eastbourne Council in their wisdom have converted it to this....

                                           

Goodness knows what they were thinking, probably an attempt at conservation or penny-pinching, but it looks like a colony of blond heads poking up above the gravel and not at all the colourful picturesque flowerbeds they once were. 

The Bandstand was under renovation so no open air concerts yet.

I was so lucky with the weather - normally it rains wherever I go - even in the Mediterranean.

On the last evening, I met up with Greg's best friend from schooldays who also happens to be Kay's godfather. We haven't met for about ten years, but he and his wife live at Hastings which is only a short drive from Eastbourne. It was lovely to spend time with them in my favourite Italian restaurant in Eastbourne and catch up on one another's news.

I was only there three nights, as I had to get back for an important choir rehearsal on Thursday. Driving through the Ashdown Forest (famous for Winnie the Pooh) with its gorse bushes shining bright in the sunshine was heavenly. It did me the power of good to get away for a few days.

Survival of the fittest

I'm not a very sporty person. I hated sport at school, always tried to be goalkeeper in hockey so I wouldn't have too much running around to do and loathed gym with a passion. I mean, what is the point of climbing up ropes or springing over a horse? I was mediocre in tennis and netball and didn't mind a bit of trampolining, but that was the extent of my sportiness. I can't even swim or ride a bike, not having been taught to as a child. 

As an adult, I avoided sport like the plague. I avoided doing it AND watching it. Whereas most people go mad over Wimbledon fortnight (which takes place a short tram-ride from where I Iive), I cannot bear it and get annoyed with the endless coverage on TV. I might watch the occasional football match if it has some historic significance, but even that leaves me with half an eye on the TV doing something else. I hate the Olympic coverage and, as to why footballers earn vast sums of money just to kick a ball about, escapes me (and not always perfectly into the goal in my view, given that is what they are paid to do).

Thus it may surprise you to know that in my seventies I have taken up going to the gym. By accident I might add, but nevertheless. Just before the arrival of Covid, I had some blood tests that showed I was too close to being diabetic. Not quite over the threshold to require medication, but nevertheless close, unless I diverted it. My doctor advised me to join the gym where I would get 12 free sessions, courtesy of the National Health Service. This I duly did and found I actually liked the treadmills and bikes with their computer screens and analysis of my progress. After the 12 sessions, the statistics showed I had toned muscles, lost some fat, my bloods were showing a more acceptable glucose reading and I was no longer pre-diabetic.

Of course, the gym jumped on the opportunity to offer me a senior citizen membership. For something like £38 a month I had the choice of use of the gym equipment and swimming pool whenever I wanted, as well as hundreds of exercise classes a week. There is so much to choose from - pilates, yoga, keep fit, strength and stability, zumba, line dancing, body pump, group cycle class, weightlifting and much more.

Because of timing and parking restrictions near the gym, I have narrowed my classes down to three keep-fit classes a week. One on Monday which is relatively gentle and which I usually precede with an hour in the gym on equipment. The other two are back-to-back classes on a Wednesday. I call these my manic classes. They are advertised as for the 'Over 60s', but i think the Wednesday instructor has not got the memo and thinks we are 'Over 16s'. I call them my Manic classes. Another lady calls them her survival classes. I think you can deduce from that how exhausting those classes are. The Instructor is a lovely lady of Caribbean origin and she always gets cheers of approval when she enters the class. She plays beaty music such as Bob Marley, Michael Jackson or Soul Sisters and we have to keep up the intensity for about 45 minutes. I love her classes as she is so full of enthusiasm and cheers us on.  We leave the class dripping in sweat. On the odd occasion that she is on holiday in the Caribbean, her replacements are quite tame in comparison. The level of mania/survival seems to intensify with each week. This week, I finished the class almost on all fours and woke the following day aching all over.

I have quite surprised at how 'sporty' I have become, even ensuring I have the right clothes and shoes. As people often say, "if you don't use it, you lose it". Maybe I'll make the Olympics yet.

Why Alcoholic Daze? Chapter 1

In connection with my last post and for those who are new to my blog or for those who came here, hoping to seek some nuggets about alcoholism, I thought it might make sense to post once a month some repeat posts of my blog and how it all came about. So starting with today and then continuing with the first Sunday of every month, I shall focus on that. This is how my blog began nearly 18 years ago in 2008......

Alcoholic Daze – it seemed such a good name for my blog – a play on words of daze and days – because alcohol features quite a lot in my days, and weeks, and months, and years. But before you go leaping to conclusions, I am stone cold sober. All the time. My husband Greg on the other hand is not. I am watching him slowly kill himself and our love with it. He is an alcoholic. There, I have said it, spoken it out loud and now I believe it myself. HE IS AN ALCOHOLIC. Up to now, not many people knew he was, including me. 

At first I did not see it creeping up on us, then when I did, I tried to excuse it for something else. Eventually, when there was no doubt about it, I tried to keep the “problem” to myself for years until I broke down one day and told his sister. She in turn told their mother. A few months down the line, I decided to bare all to my best friend S, whom I mainly email on a weekly basis, as she does not live close by. Then eventually, when my mother* came to stay with us for a week over Christmas, eighteen months ago, it was so obvious to her and so she became enlightened to my world. The small circle of those that knew remained confined until recently. They were there in the background offering me support when I felt down or frustrated. Before I had told them, I had felt in the middle of a nightmare. Once they knew, I felt I could at least share the nightmare with them.

But recently, things have reached such a peak – I shall endeavour to explain later as the blog unfolds- that it was proving difficult to contain the problem. My daughter Kay* who is in the throes of sixth form and all the pressures that brings with coursework and exams, was finding it impossible to get the peace at home she needs to study. Normality for us is Greg shrieking his head off when anyone dares to say boo to a goose. The simplest things can set him off. Harmless questions to me or you can send him into orbit like the incredible hulk. Obviously the later in the day, and the more alcohol he has consumed, the greater the outbursts. Which usually coincide with my daughter coming home from school and attempting to do her homework. I use the word attempt advisedly because often she has to give up…..like she did a few weeks ago, when trying to revise for a chemistry test. She had to give up. He was shouting for so long and for hours on end. He usually follows us around the house as we move from room to room to get away from him and diffuse the situation. The result was that she did the test not having been able to revise a single thing the night before. She knew she had done badly and the results a few days later were confirmed. The teacher was not best pleased and took it out on her. Her A-levels were at risk. That for me was the final straw. The pretence could go on no longer. Suddenly, all these years of trying to hide it from everyone because of our collective shame was no longer important. We had to admit it and explain. For my daughter’s sake. For her future. Now was my time to come out and admit to the world that my husband is an ALCOHOLIC. It was at that point I made an appointment to see the school. Now the small circle of those who knew was about to be made bigger.

* Of course in the 18 years that have since passed, things have moved on. My mother is no longer alive and my daughter, Kay, is now a resident doctor in a hospital, but those details were correct at the time of writing in 2008.

Sixteen years

In a few days' time it will be the sixteenth anniversary of Greg's death. Sixteen years. That is almost half of the time we were married together. On the day he died, I wondered how I would cope without him and couldn't envisage getting to a stage where I would have ever  coped through sixteen years.

So much has happened since, either that he has missed himself or I have had to deal with. Just the general upkeep of the house and garden alone with major decisions to make on my own about what to get repaired or renovated and when, dealing with the finances and hiring tradesmen. Being able to discuss it with someone and share the problems made it so much easier when there was the two of us, although to be fair in his latter years he was so drunk, he left it all to me anyway.

He missed out on our daughter leaving school, going to university, graduating, becoming a doctor, getting married. I was the one supporting her, financing her, visiting her. I even got the job of doing the Father of the Bride speech at her wedding, something I am sure he would have been so much better at than me.

As an international news journalist, he has missed out on all the major events of the last 16 years from his beloved Liberal party finally getting back in to the government, when they went into Coalition with the Conservatives in 2010, the shenanigans in the various UK governments since then, Brexit, Covid, Trump, Putin, Ukraine, Gaza and much much more.

I have no brothers or sisters or even cousins. Kay is effectively the only family I have now and, of course, she has recently married and has her own very busy life to lead with many demands on her job and exams and little time to socialise. All of which means that I now have to find things to fill my world with. I long to go on holiday somewhere, anywhere, but don't have the courage to go on my own and can't expect Kay to give up her precious annual leave to go away with me, when she has a dashing young husband to go away with instead. Little did I know when Greg died, that I would make it through sixteen years, but somehow I have and will carry on doing so, so long as I have strength.

It is not easy being a widow and I don't think a lot of married couples give it much thought. Apart from the lonely evenings spent watching far too much television without a soul to speak to, there is the constant decision-making about what to do in the house or garden, the prospect of not holidaying again and just the sheer loneliness. I try to combat that by volunteering with charities like the local foodbank or the local park, gym classes and choir, but it is the evenings and weekends that are the worst, as well as coming home to an empty house. Many friends have commented that they don't know how I can have so many things to do, as they wouldn't have the energy to keep up with them, but the alternative is to stay indoors and become a recluse. Something I am determined not to be.

Hospital tests

Earlier this week I had to have a hospital test that was new to me. In order to find out why food stays in my stomach more than the normal 3 to 5 hours  (gastroscopies and ultrasound have shown it to be there for over 16 hours after I have fasted), I was urged to have a Delayed Gastric Emptying Study (DGES). I am pretty sure the culprit will be the pyloric valve damaged at the base of my stomach by the operation I had ten years ago (see here), but this test was just to make sure there was no other reason for the hold-up.

So last week, I made my way to the Nuclear Medicine Department of Guy's Hospital near London Bridge for my appointment there. The word "Nuclear" is scary enough. Would I glow in the dark afterwards? I had to present myself fasting and that included drinking no water either. Having to negotiate the hour-long journey from home to London Bridge - in morning rush-hour on busy trains without breakfast and not even a sip of water - was hard.

On arriving at the Nuclear Medicine Department, I was eventually ushered into this room to a seat in the corner, from where the photo was eventually taken. This is where I was to spend the next 2 and a half hours.

I was asked to wear a plastic apron and gloves to avoid any radioactive spillage on me. In front of me was a trolley with 5 small paper cups. In each was about 2 inches (5 cm) of a beige milky-like substance with radioactive content. I had to swallow the contents of cup 1 and then a nurse timed me to wait 2 minutes before I drank the 2nd cup, then timed 2 minutes until I drank the 3rd cup and so on, until all 5 cupfuls had been consumed. I was then asked to stand between the two upright plates you see in the photo, while they adjusted them to get my stomach visible on the adjacent computer screen, seen to the right near the ceiling on the photo. When I was in the correct position, with arms raised out of the way, they pressed a button on the computer screen and it timed 30 seconds to take the picture. I was then told to sit down again and the radiographer disappeared into the office next door to kill time. 

Five minutes later I was asked to stand in front of the plates again and repeat the process of filming for 30 seconds. This happened every 5 minutes over the next half hour. Luckily I had brought a book with me and, despite the loud humming of the equipment and hardness of the chair, not to mention the frequent interruptions every 5 minutes to ask me to stand in front of the x-ray plates, the time passed reasonably quickly. However, then we had to repeat all of this every 10 minutes for the next hour and every 15 minutes for the next half hour. I was in that room for two and a half hours in all. 

I did ask why they had got me to drink liquids, as I would imagine they trickle through that awkward valve quite easily and my consultant had expressly said that solids in the stomach behave differently from liquids which is why she wanted this test done using solids rather than a Barium meal x-ray . The staff seemed perplexed by my question and said, in that case, the test may have to be done again at a later date with porridge instead of the drink. In the meantime they would send their report to my consultant and see what she says. It is obvious something got lost in translation between my consultant and the Nuclear Medicine Department. We shall have to see whether the test was conclusive or absolutely pointless.

(S)NO(W) JOKE

This week, Kay has been in France skiing with her husband and in-laws. They had return flights to Geneva and hired a car to drive over the border to France. There were six of them -  Kay, Darcy, Darcy's parents, Darcy's sister and her boyfriend. The boyfriend is an excellent skier and has been teaching everyone else, first on the nursery slopes and then graduating to the steeper more complicated ones.  Kay did some skiing in France with her school when she was about 14, but to be fair that was a long time ago, so she needed some refreshing. To start with it was good news coming in and an amazing video of Kay doing a ten-minute ski down a very steep slope. Unfortunately it coincided with the news that the US Olympic skier Lindsey Vonn had had a terrible accident doing her Olympic downhill ski-racing and was airlifted to hospital with multiple leg fractures. 

The next day Kay texted me to say she was having a coffee in a cafe as she had taken a few tumbles and it had shaken her confidence. I could not wait for the week to finish and hear that they were flying home again. A mother never stops worrying, no matter how old their child is.

Clash of antlers

This week, I had a very unusual encounter with a stranger. 

I had popped into our local hypermarket to buy something for Kay's birthday, which is not until July, but we had visited this store together recently and she had shown an interest in something that gave me an idea for a present. It is very difficult nowadays to gauge presents for her. Living apart and rarely seeing her means I no longer know what her taste in clothes or homeware is, so to be given a strong clue was an advantage I couldn't miss.

I had taken a trolley so I could also buy some food as well, but had one of those trolleys where the wheels have a mind of their own and steering it was difficult. I had grabbed the present for Kay and a few food items and had just rounded the corner from one aisle and was about to turn into the next aisle, when a woman coming in the opposite direction did the same. We literally came face to face. She didn't have a trolley, just a carry basket, and of course my trolley was difficult to manoeuvre. So I half expected her to do a circle round me to get past. Instead, she stood her ground and glared at me. I was so flummoxed by her attitude that I was speechless. "I want to go there" she said angrily, pointing to behind me. "But I want to go there" I said, pointing to behind her. Still she glared at me and I could see that we were going to be there all day unless someone gave way. Which of course was me. I had to back up a bit to get the trolley to move forward and round her, whereupon she effortlessly went on her way with her carry basket, still glaring at me. I wouldn't care, but she was at least two decades younger than me and in no way disabled. There's no accounting for people sometimes. 

Meanwhile I returned to my usual gym classes this week for the first time in nine weeks. I had stopped going since the end of November because of my stomach problem flare-up. I half expected the energetic classes to kill me, but can vouch that not only did I survive, but I  kept up with all that was asked of me. And no aches and pains the following day. 

Dance with my Father

I make no apologies for repeating this post, as 1 February is a date I can never ever forget. This year sees the 25th anniversary. In some ways it seems like yesterday - how can it be 25 years? We are singing Dance with My Father for our choir summer concert and that is difficult to sing especially with a day like today.

I suspect, should I ever die and they need to perform a post-mortem on me, they'll find the First of February 2001 etched in my brain like a stick of Brighton rock.  It is a date I shall never ever forget.

In mid December 2000, I had been told I needed an urgent hysterectomy operation. I had developed a large mass in my womb. If I lay face-down on a hard floor playing a board game or doing a jigsaw with Kay, I could feel it digging in to me. The consultant gynaecologist I went to see was fairly hopeful it was a benign fibroid but because of its large size, could not rule out it was something malignant. He needed to open me up and see for sure, but did not want to leave it too long. However, with the Christmas and New Year period in the way and therefore an obstacle both from my and the NHS point of view, my operation, although urgent,  was fixed for the 2 February 2001, some six weeks away.

However over Christmas, it became apparent my father was very ill. I have written before about how special he was to me, how close we were and how upset I was when he died, untimely ripped from our lives by leukaemia and (cruelly) to have two kinds of the disease at the same time: one which he could have lived with for many many years and, apart from the occasional blood transfusions, would have caused no problem, but the second type was more aggressive and by mid-January 2001 revealed the diagnosis that he had but a few months if not weeks to live and he was too weak for chemotherapy. Not certain when exactly he would die, I was nervous to go ahead with my operation, but my father begged me to carry on, as it was much needed and he would not be happy if I postponed it.  He argued that I still had my life in front of me and would be recuperating by the time he grew worse, so we stuck to the schedule.

A few days before my operation, Greg, a nine-year-old Kay and I drove the sixty-odd miles to stay with my parents for the weekend. We visited my father who was by now very weak and in hospital. The consultant haematologist told us that Dad was rapidly fading and that his blood was showing more of the killer leukaemia cells day by day. Again I protested that I ought to cancel my operation, but again my father insisted I should go ahead and be all the more stronger to deal with what would happen to him later. At our parting, I hugged and kissed him and could not bear to let go or turn the corner out of view from his bed in the ward, all the time trying to keep a brave front for Kay who did not really understand or suspect what was going on.

A few days later, it was Thursday 1 February 2001: the day before my operation. I had been told to report to the ward at about mid-afternoon. I was to have a bath at home beforehand and to have brought a case full of stuff to last me a week in hospital. The hysterectomy and removal of the "mass" would take place on the Friday morning. I was at home busy preparing myself and making sure that Greg and Kay would have enough to be fed and watered during my 7-day absence. I was also packing a case and getting ready to have a bath after lunch.

At about 12:50pm the telephone rang. It was my mother in floods of tears. My father had suddenly passed away ten minutes before. I froze. Now what to do?   I was all for rushing to be with my mother but Greg wanted me to have that op so badly as he was nervous it could be bad news and to postpone it was madness. However I could not leave my mother to cope with Dad's funeral on her own and in any case I did not want to be incapacitated for it either. I decided to cancel the operation. I rang the hospital and left a message with the consultant's secretary. I rang around my circle of friends and relatives telling them the grave news.

I was in a daze. I could not think straight. There were a million and one things to think about, not least of which was how we were going to break the news to Kay. The phone kept ringing.  Then in the late afternoon my consultant rang me back. He said he sympathised with my position, but he would seriously urge me to reconsider the operation for the next morning. "Your father can no longer be saved, but YOU can", he said. He also said he could not guarantee that putting it off for a few weeks would have a good outcome if the mass was malignant. He begged me to think about it and ring him back with my decision. Meanwhile people were ringing me saying much the same thing, that my father would want me to go ahead with the operation. My mother even rang to say she had been taken by close friends to collect the death certificate and the funeral could be arranged for three weeks hence, by which time I would have recuperated. There was nothing else for me to help her with, so even she said I should go ahead with the op.

Thus it came to pass that on the evening of 1 February 2001, Greg delivered me to the hospital and then rushed off to collect Kay who had gone back to a friend's house since leaving school that afternoon. I found myself sitting up in a bed in a large old Victorian  gynaecological ward of twenty beds or more, ten down one side and ten down the the opposite side. I sat listening to people laughing with and chatting to their visitors, while the tears rolled down my cheeks. My beloved father had just died;  I sat all alone surrounded by people; and I faced major surgery the next morning. A day I would never ever forget.

Twenty-five years on, I still miss him.

Greenland is within grasp.

 I have mentioned before that during Covid and in total isolation, I busied myself with knitting dementia mitts. It had a threefold use - first it gave me something to do in my solitude. Secondly it passed the hours whilst not feeling guilty about watching too much television at the same time. Thirdly it stopped the temptation to nibble on calorie-rich snacks when I was bored. I have made hundreds of these mitts over the last few years and donated them free of charge to charity shops, care homes and friends, whose relatives needed them.  We have even recently been selling them in our local park information centre, as a lot of park visitors have dementia.  As soon as I have made a few, I get requests for more. 

Recently a volunteer I work with at our local foodbank asked if she could have some. She also volunteers at our local hospice and knew they would be useful there. I have in fact donated to this hospice before. So since Christmas I have been knitting like an automaton to produce these to donate to her for the hospice.....

It got me thinking, there might be a need for one at the White House for the Mighty Orange One. I must knit a special red and white one in Greenland flag colours and look up the postal address of the White House. At least that would be something for him to get his hands on as his lunacy advances.

Keeping a straight face

Our choir rehearsals started again this week and we are going to start preparing for our big sell-out summer concert with the broad title of 'Family'.  One of the songs we started on this week is Mamma Mia. We sang it with gusto and it sounded just like a karaoke night at the pub! I'm sure with some refinement we'll sound better by the summer. Another of the songs in our repertoire is going to be 'We are Family' by Sister Sledge. I don't know how I am going to be able to sing this with a straight face as I always have Peter Kay's version of it in my head. Here it is for those who don't know it....

Gloom and Doom

The weather for the past 2 weeks has not been great. I appreciate nowhere near as bad as other northern counties of the UK or Northern Europe, but nevertheless grim and grey. We managed to escape any of the heavy snow in London, but the temperatures have hovered near freezing, sometimes dipping below or just slightly above. It has meant I have been nervous to switch off my central heating at night as I am terrified the water pipes will burst and cost me a fortune to rectify.

In the last 10 days I have been out of the house once. Partly because I managed to catch a cold-like bug at new year and so was full of sniffles and coughs, but also because it was too grim and cold to bother going out. On Thursday I had a good excuse to attempt an outing - a choir social event in the evening - no singing just partying - but I cried off as the forecast was not good and I was also fearful my car battery might not spark into action as I had not driven it for over a fortnight. I didn't want to be stuck in the cold and dark if it gave up on me. As it happened, a lot of my choir friends decided the same, so I was pleased I didn't miss much. I wouldn't have been able to drink alcohol anyway, as I am still trying to please my poorly stomach by avoiding triggers, so too much risk for little gain, so to speak. I did manage a drive to foodbank to volunteer there on Friday and it felt so strange being out after so long indoors. I think I'm turning into one of those animals that hibernate.

Happy New Year and into 2026

Christmas went very well considering I was nervous about spending it for 3 nights and 4 days with Darcy's parents, when my stomach was still playing up. I took my own food with me, in case they served something unsuitable. I was glad I did as some of the fare was spicy or very late at night - both things that can send my stomach into orbit. Kay collected me on Christmas Eve, drove us down to deepest Kent and from then on it was one long party with various members of Darcy's siblings dipping in and out of the celebrations over the four days. Christmas morning was spent with most of the family doing a 9am park run followed by a quick dash for the 10.30 church service. Once home, there was a group effort to prepare vegetables to go with a Beef Wellington, followed by a cherry and almond tiramisu. Canapes first and champagne cocktails (from which I sadly had to abstain as I was on a no-alcohol diet for my poorly stomach). We ate lunch at 4.  The evening meal was cheese and biscuits at 10.30pm (far to late for my stomach to process) so I just ate 2 digestive biscuits to show willing. The four days were studded with many games. I am not used to playing games. As an only child, there was never anything like that in my childhood and Greg was never one for family games. Now living alone, there is no opportunity either. So I therefore found it hard to join in, but must say, when we played Traitors, I was elected Traitor and apparently played it well, eliminating most of the Faithfuls to the last two! 

For New Year, my friend in Brighton had invited me and my best friend to spend it with her. Sadly my best friend was unable to come at the last minute, as she had an emergency, so it was just the two of us. My friend lit the fire, as she always does when we celebrate New Year together, and it cosily saw us through to midnight, when we watched the midnight fireworks on Brighton seafront from the safety of her windows.

And so, now we are into the new year. Normally I feel all discombobulated at the beginning of a new year. I compare the passing of a year to climbing a mountain.  In January, we start at the foothills where the vegetation is lush and slowly make the ascent into February, March, April and so on. By December, after a lot of hard effort, we finally get to the snowy peak and regard the world from on high with much merriment. But come New Year's Eve, we fall off the cliff edge, falling falling falling..........until we reach the ground, there at the foothills once more to start the arduous climb into January.

And so I start January with optimism that this will be a better year. A year with lots of tests on my stomach to start with, but hopefully with some improvement. I'm also considering some tooth implant work too. A Happy New Year to you all from the foothills of January!  I'll try to keep up with my regular Sunday waffling all through the year.

Happy Christmas

Sick of bland food over the last four weeks, I decided to do an experiment. As Kay, Darcy and I had been invited over to Darcy's parents in deepest Kent for Christmas, and they tend to cook vegetarian, we decided to have our traditional Christmas lunch a few days ago on Monday. I cooked the traditional meal only swapping turkey for chicken, as I did not want a lot of leftovers. I literally helped myself to a teaspoon of everything - chicken, carrots, parsnips, potato and one pig in its blanket - with lashings of gravy to convert it into a mush. The whole meal hardly covered a quarter of my dinner plate. I passed on the red cabbage and sprouts as I thought that was a step too far for an unhappy stomach. I then had a teaspoon of Christmas pudding with a little cream. If anything was going to upset me, THAT would. Thankfully and instinctively, I knew now was a right time to experiment and to my delight my stomach took the new food well and did not react, although admittedly I had dosed myself before and after with so much medication that it would have been a surprise if I had reacted. We even went for a short walk around the neighbourhood afterwards.

In the evening, we watched the DVD of It's a Wonderful Life. I have never seen it before. It was actually Greg's favourite film of all time and ever since I had known him, he had said how much he liked the film. He used to go on about it many times. We bought him the DVD as a Christmas present, the Christmas before he died. He was too past it and ill to watch it, even if he took it in that we had given it to him. It thus sat on the shelf unopened for the last 16 years. Now and again, Kay and I would be tempted to watch it, but always found excuses not to. Until we decided to watch it that evening.  Although incredibly dated - it was first shown in 1946 - in black and white and with some scenes that would not pass politically-correct muster nowadays - it was an incredibly sad yet uplifting film. We kept thinking of Greg all the way through and let's just say there were tears at the end.

We are all off to spend Christmas with Darcy's parents, so I hope my stomach can stand the test. It just leaves me to wish you all a very Happy Christmas and all the best for the New Year. I'll be back to my regular Sunday posts in the New Year!

Music, music, music

This last week has been a week of music events and, despite still feeling ill, I managed to go to all of them.

First last Monday was my choir's concert in a nearby parish church. Five of my friends had - for the first time bought tickets to come and see me. Kay and her husband Darcy were there too. In the run-up to it, I had of course been feeling unwell, but knew I could not really go sick for the concert, if seven people had gone to all the trouble to watch me. It did put a lot of pressure on me, as with my acid-burnt throat I could not reach the very top soprano notes and had to mime some of them. Of course afterwards there was mince pies and mulled wine - none of which I could partake in as I am still on a very bland diet. The concert however was a huge success. Here is my favourite song of all our repertoire that night.

Then on Thursday Kay, Darcy and I had tickets for the Royal Albert Hall to see Anna Lapwood, the celebrity organist. The concert was a mixture of traditional Christmas songs, carols and theme tunes from big films often shown at Christmas, such as ET, Interstellar, Love Actually or The Greatest Showman. Anna Lapwood was an amusing compere from her little Rapunzel turret (or organ loft to give it its proper name) high above the choir and Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, where she would then turn round to play the magnificent organ for all of the songs. Near the beginning she mentioned that there had been a lottery of ticket buyers and two names had won, both coincidentally German. She said she would call them up on stage to manage the audience at some point. In the second half of the concert,  Anna Lapwood announced the next song was A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman and she called upon the two Germans - a man and a woman - to come up on stage, as she wanted the audience to switch on the torches on their phones during the chorus to give a starry effect in the auditorium, so the Germans' job was to make sure the audience knew when their cue was. Suddenly, the audience erupted into cheers and screams midway through the song, as the German woman got down on one knee and proposed to the man. Both ended in an embrace while the audience went wild. Here is Anna Lapwood's own Instagram post about it.

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A post shared by Anna Lapwood | Organist (@annalapwoodorgan)

Then yesterday was our local church's adult nativity service. It is always packed out with a lot of people standing. It starts at 6.30 in the evening. We are given a programme and a candle as we enter the church. Once we are all seated, the church lights are all turned off and the nativity begins in darkness with Mary seated at the front. The Angel Gabriel enters with a candle while passages about the nativity begin to be read. The angel lights Mary's candle. As the nativity story unfolds, more candles are lit for Joseph, then the shepherds and three kings, as they enter the tableau at the front. The wise men and shepherds walk up and down the church aisles on their way  to the scene at the front, so it is is quite emotional as the "audience" are involved. Once the story had been enacted, warders come along the central aisle to light the candle of the first person sitting in each pew and that person then lights the candle of the person next to them, so that very soon the whole church is lit with candles. It symbolises that the world is full of light, so to speak. It is such a popular service that, as I say, you need to get there very early to ensure a seat, otherwise it is standing room only! It is also of course the church where Kay and Darcy married. It is always a special service for me as I was three months pregnant with Kay when I first ever went to it and ever since it has never ceased to be the only church service I go to all year.

More food for thought

I hinted in my last post that I had seen my gastric consultant and there was much to think about. To recap, I had a tumour removed from my stomach in 2016 and it has caused me various problems ever since.

The tumour shown in red above was removed but left the top of my stomach a thin pointed shape which now pokes through my diaphragm up into the oesophagus (foodpipe) and releases acid into my throat. This is called a hiatus hernia.

The second problem is that on the stomach wall, where the tumour was, runs a nerve which tells the pyloric sphincter at the bottom of the stomach to open. In removing the tumour, that nerve was damaged and now the pyloric sphincter doesn't open easily to let the food out into the duodenum and on to the intestines. So again, food and acid builds up in my stomach. The medical term is "delayed gastric emptying"  (DGE). When I have had to fast for a gastroscopy procedure, I have fasted for at least 18 hours and they have still found food in my stomach when they have put the camera down. Again this can cause the acid to back up into my throat.

My consultant surgeon has done many gastroscopies on me over the last nine years and attempted to stretch the pyloric valve to make it more prone to opening, as it is clearly tensely shut. It helps for a while but then I get another flare-up of acid reflux which makes me ill for about a week at time. The acid often comes up at night when I am asleep and I rear up choking.  On one occasion, the acid came up and went back down into my lungs, so I woke fighting for breath as if I were drowning. It was quite alarming, especially as I live on my own.

About 18 days ago, I had another flare-up which is still going on as I write - the longest bout I have ever had. My throat and stomach are inflamed and I have a cough as the throat is burnt. It means eating bland food such as eggs, custard, plain pasta and plain biscuits. Caffeine is also out of the question, so I am drinking plain water. I can only eat small quantities too as filling the stomach to full capacity just forces the acid up.

As luck would have it, I had an appointment with my consultant surgeon on 4 December. She is a lovely woman and we have a good rapport. She mulled over what I had told her and said that at the last gastroscopy in October, my stomach was more an hour-glass shape. She therefore would like to do a gastric emptying (DGE) study. Stupidly I thought this would involve filling in a form, but I was wrong. It involves eating something with a radioactive tracer and a gamma camera traces its progress through the stomach at intervals over several hours to see where the blockage is. If, as we think, the blockage is because the pyloric sphincter is the problem, then at the very least, she can inject botox into the sphincter to make it looser. If that fails, she can be more drastic and make a small cut in the sphincter to ease the tension a bit. Those options seem fairly risk free and I am going ahead with the botox option in January as well as the DGE study.

If the problem lies with the hour-glass shape of my stomach and food is getting trapped there, then she said she could cut the stomach ABOVE the narrow part, cut BELOW the narrow part, remove said narrow part and join the two other parts together again, thus making my stomach more a bag-shape. The risks to that are immense, obviously involving major surgery and I would not be able to eat normally for months until the stomach recovered. The thought of that petrifies me and I wonder whether that in itself would cause more complications and make things even worse. 

I did ask her whether a repair to the hiatus hernia would be a solution. She categorically refused to do that option. It would involve tightening the diaphragm so the stomach can't poke up through it. Tie it too tight and food might not be able to get down the oesophagus, so I would be forever on liquids! Tie it too tight and the pyloric sphincter below is still too lazy to open, there would be nowhere for the food contents to go - either upwards or downwards - causing my stomach to swell and explode !!!!!

So, I am opting first for the DGE study and the botox injection in January and see how I fare. The other options have been removed from my mind altogether, as they are the stuff of nightmares. Meanwhile I soldier on feeling pretty rotten at the moment and even wondering if I'll be better for Christmas. Not being able to eat normally and join in with the current pre-Christmas (often alcoholic) festivities is annoying as I have had to cancel meals out with friends and may have to cancel Christmas altogether. I can just picture myself curled up in bed in front of the TV on Christmas Day with a plate of scrambled egg and a bowl of custard for company. Bah humbug.

Christmas is coming

I'm not very much of a winter person as I hate the cold, damp weather and the long dark evenings which are not conducive to doing anything much except hunkering down and watching endless TV. Even when I do venture out in the evenings, such as to choir rehearsals, it is gone 10 o'clock, when I return to my car often with condensation on the windscreen or at worst frost. But there is one thing winter brings, which is not available any other time of year and that is Christmas.

I know shops tend to start Christmas as early as August and certainly by early November it is impossible to ignore that Christmas is on its way. I absolutely love Christmas and am like a child in my anticipation of it. By early November I have bought all my Christmas cards and started planning what to buy others for presents. By the end of November, I have written my annual Christmas letter both in English and German to pop into the cards when I send them. By the first week of December, my cards are written and sent off. A lot of presents I have already bought are wrapped up and ready. My food shopping lists are written and ordered into what can be bought in advance for the cupboard and nearer the time for the fridge.

Last but not least, I decorate the house at the beginning of December. That gives me a whole month to enjoy it.  As I mentioned in my last post, I am still not feeling great and a visit to my consultant on Thursday gave me much to think about - some of it quite frightening. There are various options which I won't get into now, as that is a subject for another post altogether, but let's just say this week has been a complete write-off with me cancelling gym sessions and other things, as I felt too rough. Despite feeling unwell, I was able to decorate the tree in little bursts with a sit-down in between. And here are the results. Bring it on..... 

Three quarters of a century

Yesterday saw me celebrating my birthday. A milestone one at that. I am now officially 75 or in other words three quarters of a century. A 1950 vintage and so far doing OK. People keep telling me I don't look 75 but younger. I'm not sure if they're just being kind or need to go to Specsavers!

I was going to tell you that we caught the train to a Medway town I have never been to and was interested in seeing it, as it has an old castle and a house where Charles Dickens lived. Unfortunately the weather proved far too wet and cold to tramp around outside for a whole day and furthermore I had a flare-up of my on-going stomach problem where I feel as if I have been punched in the chest. Also, because, Kay is stressed and preoccupied with a forthcoming exam in 3 days' time, I decided it was best all round if we aborted the trip and I took to my bed and rested while Kay revised at her house. 

In the late afternoon, I rallied a bit and we met up and ventured out to see the switching-on of the Christmas lights in our "village".  Unfortunately I was still not up to eating a meal out and certainly no alcohol on my acid-burnt tummy, which was a shame as I was looking forward to having a meal out in my favourite Italian restaurant here. They always do the most amazing skate wing with caper sauce, new potatoes and vegetables.

Admittedly I was feeling ghastly, so forced some semblance of a smile, as Kay took this photo yesterday. 

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Here's a photo taken 5 years ago on my 70th. I am looking a bit more cheerful there!

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And here's another one taken later last night where I managed a proper smile...

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It takes me a good few days if not sometimes weeks to get over these stomach acid flare-ups, but thankfully I am seeing my consultant on Thursday for a review after my recent gastroscopy. Meanwhile a bland diet is my cuisine for the immediate future.

The next big birthday will be my eightieth. Given that I couldn't celebrate my seventieth in grand style with a party because of covid lockdowns, I think I'll start to arrange that now.

A Parliament of Owls

Thanks to a post by Dawn Treader recently, it got me thinking about the owls I own.

When I was a lot younger, I once commented that my husband Greg reminded me of an owl - he wore large metal-rimmed spectacles that were fashionable in the 60s and 70s (the sort John Lennon used to wear) and was very wise. He was a radio journalist who ended up in the BBC World Service Newsroom, so was very knowledgeable about all sorts of things to do with politics and world affairs.

Having made this observation, I then found I was inundated with presents of owls by people who needed some clues for what to give me for birthday or Christmas presents or a souvenir from their holiday. Not real owls of course, but china ones, glass ones, fabric ones, vases, mugs, pictures, doorstops, jewellery and keyrings.

Over the decades I have accumulated so many that I have now had to say 'No more, please', as my shelves and walls are groaning with them. If at some stage in the future, I need to downsize my home, I shall be hard-pushed to know what to do with them all.

The collective name for owls is a Parliament. A Parliament of Owls. So here is my 'Parliament' for you to feast your eyes on.

I have even been given socks with owls on

Rota Manager

Although I have been retired for 15 years now, I still seem to be very busy. As I have been a widow for all that time too, I find it helps to keep busy otherwise I end up talking to the wall or watching too much TV. Apart from the weekly housework and gardening that needs doing,  I have joined choirs, do at least 3 gym classes a week, help out at the local foodbank and foodbank shop and also volunteer at our local park which is run by the Friends of the Park.

As for the latter, the volunteering has involved doing a two-hour shift on a weekend afternoon to open the information centre. We can sign up to do a shift once a week, or even once every two months - the choice is yours and there is no pressure to do it regularly. The public come in to buy food for the squirrels or ducks, or leaflets about the many things to see in the park - such as the different trees, ducks, herons or wildlife. We try to answer their questions too, so there is a lot involved.

Being the organisation freak I am, I had noticed that there was a definite lack of volunteers and the Chairwoman of the Friends committee was also in poor health, so I temporarily took it upon myself to advertise for more volunteers in a local Facebook group and devise a Whatsapp rota where volunteers could sign on to do shifts. I ended up chasing for volunteers where there were gaps in the rota and ended up putting up new rotas for each month about six weeks in advance. Everyone has come to expect me as the rota manager now.

Somehow, I have also got embroiled in noting what information leaflets need updating, by whom and how to get them printed. I held my first meeting this week to get together those who are rewriting those leaflets and the finance director who will inevitably ending up paying for the reprints. It was a very successful meeting and now my role will be to chivvy/nag them into meeting deadlines. There is no point having an information centre, if you haven't got the relevant information to give out.

I may have also stuck my neck out by ordering some merchandise - children's animal bedtime stories, skipping ropes and small toys connected with nature - to sell in the centre too to raise some more income. Without trying too hard, I almost have a full-time job keeping everyone on their toes and making the park information centre a success. I'm currently trying to chase up the people who used to do two bat walks a year, as that seemed to dwindle with the advent of Covid. As for the annual music festival in the park, that may be another task for next year. The Chairwoman has asked me to consider being on the committee. I have so far managed to stay silent on that one. I much prefer to do things in the wings rather than in the spotlight.

Some visiting black swans

Cherry blossom in the spring

A pair of Egyptian Geese and a Canada Goose

Mandarin Duck